


Lionheart (Thou Mayest)

by SilverBird13



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: (I think?), Based on what I've experienced of it at least, Becoming the Mask in a way, Creepy Madeleine, Dissociative Identity Disorder, I'm not sure if this counts as dubcon, M/M, Other, Self-Harm reference, tagged it anyways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 06:15:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverBird13/pseuds/SilverBird13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Nights in Toulon are sometimes ugly, often raucous, and never to be faced without every precaution.</p><p>His dreams are much the same."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lionheart (Thou Mayest)

**Author's Note:**

> Written because we need more creepy!Madeleine. I'm not sure if I'd classify him as a totally extant identity from Valjean in this, but I've gone based on what I felt worked.

He can’t remember when the dreams start, only that he is 24601 by then and the man isn’t yet hungry yet to live beyond dreams.  
  
Valjean has always been a heavy sleeper, the years of pruning and now what has become a decade of labor having taught his body to snatch rest when it can.  He still prays before sleep, angry at God but not foolish enough to disown Him.  Nights in Toulon are sometimes ugly, often raucous, and never to be faced without every precaution.  
  
His dreams are much the same.  
  
 _He is a pruner again, clad in a dirty cream blouse instead of a burgundy smock.  The heat from the summer sun has caused it to stick flush to his body, though there is no discomfort from the heat or itchiness from drying sweat._  
  
 _“Mon cher,” a voice echoes around him, distinctly.  He turns his head with the eagerness of a young boy, the reality of a day of labor’s intensity faded by memory and mind._  
  
 _“Mon cher,”  the voice singsongs again, a deep, pleasant baritone not yet worn with screams and disuse (a voice Valjean isn’t sure he’s ever possessed or would want to)._  
  
 _He turns around in circles, searching desperately, fruitlessly for the man calling to him even as he watches the trees of the grove fade, the sky glow a fairytale blue, the grass deepen to a healthy green._  
  
 _“Mon cher,”  Valjean hears again, and feels a hand upon his shoulder, a pair of lips beneath his ear._  
  
 _He never questions the identity of the man behind him, never wonders why the man is dressed in finely tailored garments that disappear as he kisses down Valjean’s neck, his greying curls mingling with Valjean's sandy mop.  He never asks for the man’s name, certainly, though he has a feeling he knows it in the very depths of his mind._  
  
 _The man speaks no more as he reaches to untie Valjean’s blouse, squeezing his suddenly bare cock, tracing the path of the tears that streak down his face, the range of the man’s grasp and path of his fingers infinite, rejecting any living man’s laws of movement._  
  
 _“But I am living,”  the man laughs as Valjean comes, feeling the warmth on his belly turn to fire as the man smiles into his neck, kissing the back of his head and slowly biting into his skull, “And you are not.”_  
  
Half of the scars on Valjean’s body are not from the whip.  
  
  



End file.
